258: Chapter 258 Sword Formation Like a Net, Chen Xiaodao's Brilliance

The wind had just swept over the scorched earth, as ashes swirled and skittered across the ground.

Behind the rock piles, those clansmen who had originally shouted "The Family Head is mighty" still had hoarse throats, yet their palms began to sweat once more.

The cracks did not stop.

The tremors from deep underground were like a heartbeat, growing more urgent with every beat.

At the exact moment the last Yao Beast was pinned to death by the Laser Sword, Chen Wuwang stood atop the pile of corpses. The red light of his Mechanical Prosthetic Eye had not yet faded as his gaze locked onto the heat source deep underground—but he did not move.

He knew that this wave was not the end.

Rather, it was the start of an order.

"Young Lord! Three o'clock direction!" someone shouted, their voice cracking.

Everyone followed the gaze.

Three fissures exploded on the ground as black smoke billowed out. Dozens of Yao Beasts lunged from the subterranean depths, their fangs bared, sprinting on all fours as they fanned out directly toward the rock pile area—where over twenty wounded and children were still hidden!

They were extremely fast, reaching within thirty paces in the blink of an eye. A foul wind hit their faces, and even the rubble was kicked up.

Right then, a silver shadow soared into the sky.

There was no roar, no angry shout, only a clear cry:

"Sword, come!"

Chen Xiaodao pushed off with his toes, his body like an arrow leaving the string. The Mechanical prosthetic limb on his left arm hummed to life as the Psionic Circuitry instantly charged, a faint blue light flickering in his palm.

His hands formed a seal, and the Mecha Box on his back popped open with a "clack." Twenty short swords rose into the air one by one, tracing silver arcs and arranging themselves according to the positions of the Big Dipper, their tips all pointing toward the ground.

He pointed his right finger to the sky, his eyes narrowing.

"Fall!"

The twenty Flying Swords plummeted abruptly, piercing into the scorched earth with a series of crisp "zheng—" sounds.

The sword bodies vibrated, and psionic pulses spread from the hilts, ripples spreading across the ground like waves on water.

Immediately after, an invisible giant net woven from Sword Qi rose from underground. A translucent light screen expanded, enveloping all the pouncing Yao Beasts within.

The first Yao Beast to hit the net was directly sent flying three zhang away, its limbs twitching and blood seeping from its forehead as it hit the ground.

The second one tried to tear at it with its sharp claws, but the Sword Qi lashed back, charring its entire forelimb on the spot.

The third one opened its mouth to spit poisonous mist, but when the mist hit the net's surface, it was actually reflected back, causing the beast to choke and retreat repeatedly.

"The array is complete!" someone exclaimed.

"Is... is this a sword array? Or Mecha Arts?" another person's eyes widened.

No one had ever seen this kind of fighting style—

It was neither pure Sword Kinesis nor cold technological weaponry.

Instead, it twisted the two together, as if using Sword Intent as code and the Flying Swords as program nodes to weave a breathing net of death.

Chen Xiaodao stood in the center of the Array Core, his feet moving in the modified steps of the "Meteor Steps" fragment, each step landing on a psionic node.

His hands moved rapidly, and the sword array resonated accordingly. The broken parts were quickly mended, applying a reverse oscillatory force that caused several Yao Beasts trying to force a Breakthrough to bleed from their seven orifices.

"The Young Lord has held the line!"

"Look! The array net is shrinking!"

Indeed, it was.

That giant net was slowly contracting, tighter and tighter. The trapped Yao Beasts were squeezed together, colliding with each other and roaring incessantly.

Their muscles bulged as they entered a berserk state, attempting to break the net with brute force.

The largest Yao Beast let out a skyward roar. Its back split open, growing bone spikes, and its claws slammed the ground, forcefully tearing a rift in the net.

Chen Xiaodao's gaze turned sharp, his footsteps remaining steady.

The Mechanical prosthetic limb on his left arm suddenly charged, the blue light in his palm surging. A beam of psionic energy shot out, precisely patching the rift.

The Sword Qi interlaced, instantly sewing the gap shut. He then threw out a shockwave with a backhand strike; the Yao Beast's chest caved in as it was sent flying, knocking over three of its companions.

"You want to break my array?" he snorted coldly. His voice wasn't loud, yet it pierced through the battlefield. "You don't even know how to write the words 'Sword Intent'."

Before his voice could fade, he suddenly leaped high into the air above the center of the array.

Pressing his palms together, he shouted lowly: "Ten Thousand Blades Return to Origin—Sever!"

The twenty Flying Swords rose from the ground simultaneously, hovering in mid-air with their tips pointing down. They arranged themselves into a dense cone formation, like dark clouds looming before a rainstorm.

In the next instant, they dove in unison!

Sword light fell like rain, pouring down in a deluge.

Every strike precisely hit a vital point—the forehead, the throat, the heart, the spinal connection. There were no redundant movements, no fancy trajectories; every hit was a fatal blow.

"Chiss—"

"Puff—"

"Crack!"

The Yao Beasts didn't even have time to wail before they collapsed one after another, blood staining the scorched earth.

A Yao Beast that had just lunged forward half a step was pierced through the skull by three Flying Swords, pinned to the ground like it had three iron skewers stuck in it.

The last one tried to flee, but as it turned, a Flying Sword caught up from behind, piercing its nape. The sword tip emerged from its forehead, blood dripping down the blade.

The entire field fell silent.

Only the sound of the wind swirling the ashes remained.

Chen Xiaodao landed lightly, his toes touching the ground without kicking up any dust.

Sweat beaded on his brow and his breathing was slightly heavy, but his eyes were clear. He held his short sword pointing diagonally at the ground, still maintaining a combat-ready posture.

The Mechanical prosthetic limb on his left arm was slightly hot, fine heat-dissipation patterns appearing on its surface as it slowly retracted its energy.

He stood in front of the clansmen, his back straight and his silver hair fluttering slightly. A spark landed on his shoulder and was quickly extinguished by the wind.

In the distance, a child tremblingly raised a small hand and softly called out: "Young Lord... good job."

The voice was very small, almost swallowed by the wind.

But immediately after, a second voice rang out.

"Good job, Young Lord!"

A third voice.

"The swords of our Chen Family have never been broken!"

The shouts were not as earth-shattering as before, but they were more sincere, carrying the relief of survivors and a firm belief in the future.

An old man leaning on a cane stood up straight with trembling effort: "When he was five, he crawled out of the ruins clutching half a wooden sword... Now, he uses a true sword array."

A young man nearby had reddened eyes: "This is our Chen Family's Young Lord! He can hold his own without relying on the protection of the Family Head!"

"The Young Lord is mighty!"

"The Young Lord is mighty!!"

"The Young Lord is mighty!!!"

The voices rose and fell. Although not as world-shaking as Chen Wuwang's battle, they had more warmth—it was the sharp edge of the new generation, the pride of a youth showing his prowess for the first time.

Chen Xiaodao did not look back.

He just gripped his hilt tightly, his gaze fixed on that still-writhing fissure.

He knew that the wave just now was merely an appetizer.

The tremors deep underground had not stopped; instead, they were growing stronger, as if something was waking up.

He also knew that he hadn't won yet.

But he understood even more—

In this battle, he had already proven himself worthy of the title "Young Lord."

The wind swept across the battlefield, blowing the stray hairs on his shoulders.

He slowly raised his left hand, the Mechanical prosthetic limb charging once more, blue light flickering in his palm.

The twenty short swords slowly rose from the pile of corpses, their blades stained with blood yet still humming incessantly.

He stood at the front edge of the battlefield, facing the subterranean fissure, not retreating a single step.

At the edge of the fissure, the scorched earth bulged slightly, as if something was pushing up from below.

The tip of his sword slowly rose by three inches.